He took her to his bed. She was a virgin, which proved how great a prize she was. She wept a little afterward, silently; he was annoyed to discover that her grief made him uncomfortable. She was a handsome woman, insofar as any of the Habakar women could be called handsome, and she had a pleasingly full figure and soft, yielding flesh. A few drops of blood stained her inner thighs, but he had been gentle—as gentle as he could be, considering how long it had been since he had lain with a woman.
But now that he had satisfied his craving, he wondered if the jaran women, if Mother Sakhalin, would consider this night’s work as any different from a rape. Still, the woman had begged him for mercy, and she had given herself into his hands of her own free will. This was war, after all, and in war, the conquered must expect to become servants. Yet his captain had remarked that he had yet to see jaran riders carrying off any khaja women.
Jiroannes tried to talk with her, but they spoke no language in common and she seemed either stupid or so frightened as to be stupid, so he soon grew bored with the effort. She called herself Javani, but whether that was her name, or a title, or a word describing her feelings he could not tell. He called Lal to him and had the boy lead her away to the women’s tent, which now she would share with Samae.
In the morning, a rider came by to say that all ambassadors were required to attend court at midday.
“Eminence,” said Syrannus as he and Lal helped Jiroannes dress in his most formal sash and blouse and turban, “what would you have me do with the woman?”
“She will remain in seclusion, as befits her station,” said Jiroannes. “I will send for her again tonight. Make sure she is comfortable, Lal, and see that she is allowed to wash.”
Lal accepted these orders with his usual gratitude. Jiroannes wondered if the boy was ambitious. After all, since Lal was a eunuch, he might aspire to the honor of tending to Jiroannes’ wives and the other women in the women’s quarter. Not that Jiroannes had wives yet, but in time he intended to marry often and well.
“Lal, treat her as you would any woman of high station in your care, and see what you can discover about who and what she is. I would be—most—grateful for such information.”
Lal dropped to his knees and touched his forehead to the carpet. “Your eminence, you honor me with this responsibility.” Then he jumped to his feet and hurried off to his tasks.
Definitely ambitious. With Syrannus and four guardsmen attending him, Jiroannes walked through camp. As usual, the guardsmen stayed behind at the first circle of jaran guards while jaran men escorted Jiroannes to the flat triangle of ground where Bakhtiian sat invested in all his authority on a carpeted and silk-hung dais. His chief wife and a blinded man sat on pillows to his right. To his left sat Mother Sakhalin, an older man dressed as a rider whom Jiroannes did not recognize, and, surprisingly, Mitya.
Jiroannes was brought forward. He made his bows; he was recognized. As he backed up, he caught Mitya staring at him. The boy flushed and averted his gaze, looking ashamed and uncomfortable. His aunt Sonia came forward from her station to one side and spoke to the boy for a few moments in a low voice. Mitya straightened his shoulders and drew himself up. What was he doing up there? Was it possible that Mitya was one of Bakhtiian’s heirs? Was Bakhtiian showing him off, or showing him preference? Jiroannes realized that he had not the slightest idea of who might or might not succeed Bakhtiian if Bakhtiian died, and this irritated him. But at least Bakhtiian looked hale, if a little pale about the lips. If Bakhtiian had indeed been ill, he looked no worse for the experience. Other ambassadors came forward in their turn and were recognized and dismissed to the audience.
The afternoon dragged on as one embassy after the next appeared to entreat Bakhtiian for clemency: Habakar city-elders and Habakar governors and one furtive-looking Habakar prince with two wives and nine children surrendered one by one, begging nothing more than that they and what they offered into Bakhtiian’s hands be spared the destruction being visited on Habakar lands by Bakhtiian’s ruthless general Yaroslav Sakhalin. They pledged undying loyalty to his person; the Habakar prince offered him his eldest daughter—who looked all of twelve years old—to wife.
The offer prompted a long exchange between Bakhtiian and his chief wife which Jiroannes was too far away to follow. Partway through it, Mitya’s head jerked up as if his name had been mentioned, and the boy wrung his hands in his lap and gazed sidelong at the Habakar girl and then away.
It was hot and dusty. The sun burned through the silk of Jiroannes’s emerald green blouse and baked his back. Syrannus fanned him, but the tiny breeze gave no relief. Sweat trickled down in rivulets and streams on Habakar faces, on other foreign faces, dampening backs and arms, staining the rich fabric of their clothing. Awnings shielded all of the jaran sitting or standing in attendance, except for the guards. Of the foreigners, only the four interpreters stood under cover.
The Habakar prince knelt in the dirt with his wives and children huddled behind him and the girl in question standing on display to one side with her gaze cast down. They did not veil their women here, so her face was plain for all to see. Her clothes were breathtakingly rich, and she was laden with jewelry that Jiroannes would have been proud to see his own wife wear. How had her father managed to get his family through the lines with his wealth intact? The girl kept glancing to one side, not at her father, but at the boy who knelt at his father’s right hand, the eldest of the brood, who looked to be about Mitya’s age.
Mother Sakhalin had joined in the discussion up on the dais, and some agreement was reached.
“To seal our promise,” said Bakhtiian, addressing the Habakar prince, “we will agree to take both the girl and the eldest boy.”
The prince went white, as well he might: to have one’s heir and beloved eldest son wrenched from you … even Jiroannes, who had no legitimate children yet, knew how hurtful a blow that must be. But what could he do? The man had other sons, that much was evident. The girl maintained her composure; the boy took it bravely enough, rising to stand protectively next to his sister.
“May I beg of you,” said the prince in a low voice. “that you treat them well?”
Bakhtiian regarded him with bemusement. “We are honoring you by this alliance. You are the cousin of the Habakar king, are you not, by your inheritance laws? Thus will your children marry into the noble families of the jaran and be exalted for this reason. For this reason as well, you will remain in our heart.” Clearly, it was a promise. The prince’s face cleared and he looked thoughtful more than anything, now. “You may return to your lands, which will be spared,” finished Bakhtiian.
The dismissal allowed for no reply. The prince bowed deeply and led his entourage away. One of his wives wept copiously. The other looked slyly pleased. Mitya’s Aunt Sonia came forward and herded the two Habakar children away into the jaran camp. Jiroannes felt a sudden and surprising sympathy for the brother and sister, abandoned among the barbarians, hardly knowing whether they might ever see their family or any familiar Habakar faces again. He had glimpsed the ruins of the Habakar cities on the march, and although certainly they did not compare in size or evident scope with Vidiyan cities, still, he could see that these Habakar were civilized people, unlike the jaran.
Another embassy came forward, elders begging clemency for their city, which Sakhalin had invested with some small part of his army before riding on. The afternoon wore on. Jiroannes began to feel faint from heat and sun and thirst. His eyes drooped. Syrannus prodded him awake. After a time, his eyes drooped again. His chin nodded down, and down.
Bells shook him awake. He started up, heart racing. He recognized the sound, the one made by jaran messengers as they raced on their way down the line. A rider appeared at the inner ring of guards. The messenger dismounted, throwing the reins of his blown horse to a guard, and strode forward, bells chiming. Except it wasn’t a man.
Bakhtiian stood up out of sheer surprise. “Nadine!” He got right down off the dais to go and greet her. He embraced
her, kissed her on each cheek, and then pushed her back to stare at her. A recent scar disfigured her left cheek. He brushed the line of the scar with his right hand. His eyebrows arched up. “What is this?”
She had a fulminant look about her. “I am married, Uncle. He told me you were dying, and that it was my duty.”
“Is that so? I suppose it was Feodor Grekov. Are you sorry?” He regarded her with a pained expression that might have been amusement or distress.
Her eyes burned. She looked furious and yet well aware that she was the focus of everyone’s attention. Jiroannes enjoyed watching her helpless rage. “That you’re not dead?” Her voice rasped with anger. “If I had to sacrifice myself, then I think you might have been polite enough to die and make it worth my while.” To Jiroannes’s amazement, she flung her arms around her uncle and hugged him tightly.
She let go of him and stalked past him to the dais. She greeted his wife warmly, the blind man warmly, Mitya warmly, and the old crone with distinct reserve. Mother Sakhalin looked smug. Bakhtiian followed her back, not at all offended by her rudeness. Jiroannes was not sure whether to disdain her for her ill-mannered greeting or admire her for having the courage to speak so disrespectfully to her uncle.
“What news from Morava?” Bakhtiian asked of her in a perfectly friendly voice. Then he glanced up, as if recalling that the entire court watched the proceedings eagerly. He gestured. The audience ended.
Soldiers herded the ambassadors away with their usual ruthless efficiency. Jiroannes was glad to retreat to the cool shelter of his awning, to have Jat bathe his feet in lukewarm water and Syrannus recite poetry to him. Lal had done wonders making dinner with the provisions available to him, but then he always did. Just as the boy served him dinner on the three traditional silver trays, Syrannus rose and signaled to the slave to pause. Jiroannes turned.
Mitya had halted at the edge of the Vidiyan encampment, looking uncertain as to what his reception might be if he tried to venture any farther in.
“Go and ask him to share dinner with me,” said Jiroannes sharply, afraid the boy would leave.
Syrannus hurried out and returned with Mitya. The boy glanced around the camp and relaxed when he saw no sign of Samae.
Jiroannes stood up. “I am honored by your presence,” he said, and realized that he was smiling with pleasure. “I have missed your company.” There, it was said. Let the boy scorn him if he chose.
“I’m sorry,” said Mitya hesitantly. “My aunt said—” Samae came out from inside the women’s tent, saw Mitya, and ducked back inside. The boy went crimson.
“I beg your pardon for whatever insult I may have unwittingly offered you,” said Jiroannes hastily. “Please, sit and eat with me. Syrannus, the other chair.”
Syrannus brought the other chair. Mitya sat. Lal retreated, only to return quickly with a full set of dishes for two diners and the food cunningly set out for both men. They ate in polite silence.
Lal cleared the dishes away and brought hot tea, spiced to perfection. Mitya sipped cautiously at the aromatic liquid. “Are you married?” he asked suddenly.
“Not yet, but I hope to marry once I return to my country.”
“Whom will you marry?”
Jiroannes shrugged. “There are several women I have in mind. They must all be of good birth, of course. The Great King’s fourth cousin has a daughter, and with my uncle’s influence to favor my suit, I may be able to marry her.”
“But she is a Vidiyan woman. Of your own kind.”
Jiroannes thought now that he knew why Mitya had come to him, this evening. “Yes. But if an advantageous match with a woman of high birth from another kingdom presented itself, I would certainly accept it.”
“Even if it meant you couldn’t have the—the fourth cousin’s daughter?”
“Why should it prevent me from marrying her as well?”
They stared at each other in mutual incomprehension. Light dawned on Mitya’s face. “You mean it’s true, what Tess says, that you marry more than one woman? At the same time? Gods!”
“So did the Everlasting God ordain, that each man may marry as many women as he can support. Thus also may he guarantee that he has heirs to carry on after he dies.”
“Gods,” echoed Mitya. Then he flushed and stared down at his hands.
“You’re young to think of marrying.”
Mitya’s hands moved restlessly in his lap, twisting and wringing and lacing his fingers together and then pulling them apart. “Ilya wants me to marry the Habakar princess. Not now, of course, but when I’m old enough. In four winters it will be the Year of the Wolf, and I’ll be twenty years old and of age to ride in jahar. But then he wants me to become the dyan, the governor, of these lands, Habakar lands, with her as my—my etsana, I suppose.”
“Ah,” said Jiroannes, seeing that Bakhtiian had more than simple plunder on his mind. “Well, you must know, Mitya, that the Great King of Vidiya has a wife who is the daughter of the Elenti king, so it’s common enough for nobles to marry women of other races.”
Mitya looked skeptical. “Galina said she won’t marry the boy no matter what, even if they all agree to it.”
“The boy?”
“The prince. He’ll have to marry an etsana, of course, or an etsana’s daughter. They mean him to stay with the camp. They’re going to send both the sister and the brother out to the plains for a few years and then decide. Do you think I should marry her?”
“I’m flattered that you desire my opinion, Mitya,” said Jiroannes, thrilled, that the boy had come to him in such a confiding mood.
“But you’re not jaran. You must think about these things differently than we do.”
“A prince rarely marries to suit himself. Is that not also so with the jaran?”
“My cousin married to suit himself,” muttered Mitya.
“Your cousin? Oh, you mean Bakhtiian. But he married the sister of the Prince of Jeds. That was surely a wise match for him to make.”
Mitya laughed. “You don’t know Ilya at all. That isn’t why he married her.”
Well, Mitya was still young, and Jiroannes too delighted by his presence here to want to ruin the mood by disabusing the boy of his fantastical notions about Bakhtiian. Of course a king like Bakhtiian married where he found the most benefit for himself and his ambitions. Certainly for this upstart barbarian to marry the sister of the Prince of Jeds was a tactical victory of the highest order.
“Do you want to marry the girl?” Jiroannes asked instead.
Mitya shrugged. “I don’t know. I want to please Ilya. I want to do my duty to the jaran. He told me that until Nadine has a child, I’m his heir.” He made a face of comical relief. “Gods, I’m happy Dina got married. I don’t think I want to inherit, or at least, not everything.”
“You don’t want to be Bakhtiian in your turn?” Jiroannes was astonished.
“Of course I will do what Ilya asks of me.” Lal came by and refilled their cups with steaming hot tea, fresh-brewed and piquant. “But because my mother will become etsana in time, I never thought as a boy to dream about becoming dyan.”
“Now you must think again.”
“Yes,” replied Mitya, seeming as struck by Jiroannes’s simple comment as if it were the most profound revelation. He lapsed into a silence which Jiroannes nourished with a companionable silence of his own.
“You have many khaja women in your camp now,” said Mitya finally.
“Yes. My guardsmen have—married them.”
“Mitya considered this statement. “Do they have wives at home as well, then?”
“Well. Yes. Some of them do. Not all.”
“Ah.” Mitya lapsed into silence again. Lal brought more tea. It was dark by now. A cool breeze sprang up, rustling through the dagged fringe of the awning. The moon was up and near full, and its light spread a soft glow over the endless sprawl of tents. The boy looked up at Jiroannes and down again as swiftly. “What does it mean,” he asked softly, “when they say Samae is a
slave?” He pronounced the Rhuian word awkwardly.
Jiroannes flushed, glad of the covering darkness. “I don’t know your language well enough to explain it. Perhaps Bakhtiian’s khaja wife can.”
“She did. Is what she said true?”
Jiroannes wondered if he had been cursed in a former life. “Perhaps. Probably.”
“But that’s barbaric,” said Mitya. “Only savages would hold to such a custom.”
“There are strict laws—” Jiroannes began.
“But if a woman or man of the jaran violates the gods’ laws, then they are put to death. That is just.”
“Don’t you have other laws as well? That a man or woman might break?”
“Yes.” Mitya frowned. “It’s true that Vera Veselov betrayed the sanctity of her tribe and was cast down from her high position to act as a servant to the Telyegin family, for so long as she may live. Although now she’s riding with the army, and is a good commander, they say. But still—”
“A slave is a servant,” said Jiroannes, grasping at this explanation. He so desperately did not want Mitya to leave with a disgust of him. “Many people in my country become slaves because they have violated our laws.”
Mitya appeared mollified. “That’s not so different.” He rose and handed the delicate cup carefully back to Lal. “I must go. Perhaps—I may visit another time?”
Jiroannes leapt to his feet and escorted Mitya out to the edge of the encampment. “Assuredly. I would welcome it.” And followed with other effusions, until the boy took his leave and walked out into the night, away into the jaran camp. Jiroannes returned to his chair and sank down into it with a sigh of contentment. Perhaps there was hope for this friendship after all.
“Eminence.” Lal touched his head to the carpet and waited for Jiroannes to notice him.
“You may speak.”
“Eminence, I beg your pardon for this indecent request, but the girl insisted I bring it to your attention.”